A Dance in Donegal

By Jennifer Deibel

All of her life, Irish-American Moira Doherty has relished her mother's descriptions of Ireland. When her mother dies unexpectedly in the summer of 1920, Moira decides to fulfill her mother's wish that she become the teacher in Ballymann, her home village in Donegal, Ireland.

After an arduous voyage, Moira arrives to a new home and a new job in an ancient country. Though a few locals offer a warm welcome, others are distanced by superstition and suspicion. Rumors about Moira's mother are unspoken in her presence but threaten to derail everything she's journeyed to Ballymann to do. Moira must rely on the kindness of a handful of friends--and the strength of Sean, an unsettlingly handsome thatcher who keeps popping up unannounced--as she seeks to navigate a life she'd never dreamed of . . . but perhaps was meant to live.

Jennifer Deibel's debut novel delights the senses, bringing to life the sights, sounds, smells, and language of a lush country and a colorful people. Historical romance fans will embrace her with open arms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781493428564

Jennifer Deibel

Jennifer Deibel is the author of A Dance in Donegal (winner of the Kipp Award for Historical Romance), The Lady of Galway Manor, and The Maid of Ballymacool. Her work has appeared on (in)courage, on The Better Mom, in Missions Mosaic magazine, and in other publications. With firsthand immersive experience abroad, Jennifer writes stories that help redefine home through the lens of culture, history, and family. After nearly a decade of living in Ireland and Austria, she now lives in Arizona with her husband and their three children. You can find her online at www.JenniferDeibel.com.

Book preview

Jennifer Deibel’s debut is rich in atmosphere, family mystery, and sweet romance. Her love of Ireland and her years spent there shine through in her depictions of characters and setting. Her vibrant descriptions make me want to visit the Emerald Isle myself. A gem!

Julie Klassen, author of The Bridge to Belle Island

"Journey to the Emerald Isle with A Dance in Donegal! With an authenticity born of having lived in Ireland herself, the author deftly paints a lush landscape, colorful customs, and memorable characters with personal journeys of their own. Certain to appeal to fans of historical romance, this impressive debut marks Jennifer Deibel as an author to watch. I can’t wait to read what she writes next."

Jocelyn Green, Christy Award–winning author of Veiled in Smoke

"Set against the backdrop of romance, beauty, and a firmly held faith, Jennifer Deibel’s debut paints a lavish portrait of Ireland’s Emerald Shores. A Dance in Donegal is a reader’s dance with the beauty of well-threaded words, a storied Irish hamlet, and a vintage-inspired journey worthy of turning pages while cozied up by an old, stone fireplace. Fans of Catherine Marshall’s Christy will want to clear room on their favorites shelf because this one’s earned a place alongside!"

Kristy Cambron, bestselling author of The Paris Dressmaker and The Butterfly and the Violin

"The misty air of Donegal will seep into your soul just as swiftly and surely as the characters do in Jennifer Deibel’s debut novel. Jennifer clearly knows and loves Ireland, and she fills every scene with vivid description and lilting dialogue. A Dance in Donegal is a romance, to be sure, yet there are secrets to uncover and a tender spiritual journey at its heart. Pour a cuppa and curl up with this gem of a story."

Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times bestselling author of Mine Is the Night

"Jennifer Deibel’s debut is a hallmark of atmospheric and immersive writing. Her obvious passion for Ireland is a deft brushstroke against a lush green canvas. Featuring a strong heroine and themes of resilience through adversity, this lovely and impeccably researched debut is a treatise on belonging and the many facets of home. Unabashedly romantic both in setting and in tone, A Dance in Donegal firmly establishes Deibel as a must-read author for fans of Kristy Cambron, Jennifer Delamere, and Sarah Ladd."

Rachel McMillan, author of The London Restoration

"Rich in atmosphere, deep in meaning, and sweet in nature. Jennifer Deibel’s A Dance in Donegal captivated me. Moira’s courage and compassion and Sean’s solid strength make them endearing characters, and the supporting characters were both flawed and charming. I truly loved this story."

Sarah Sundin, bestselling and award-winning author of When Twilight Breaks and the Sunrise at Normandy series

© 2021 by Jennifer Deibel

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4934-2856-4

This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

The Ballyeamon Cradle Song, found on page 79, is a traditional Irish lullaby. The author is unknown.

Published in association with Books & Such Literary Management, www.booksandsuch.com.

To the Author

of the Greatest Story

And for Seth—my real-life

dreamy handyman hero

Contents

Cover

Endorsements

Half Title Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Map

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3

4

5

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7

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11

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13

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19

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63

An Excerpt from the Next Sweeping Irish Romance

Glossary of Terms

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Ad

Back Cover

Chapter 1

BOSTON

OCTOBER 1920

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed the hour, its clangs all too reminiscent of the funeral bells presiding over Mother’s service just yesterday morning. Silent tears slipped down Moira Doherty’s cheeks—each one punctuated by the unforgiving clang, clang, clang.

I never did care for that clock.

Moira’s gaze fell on the street below, though she truly saw nothing more than blurry figures and blotches scurrying in the rain. Her burlap travel bag lay forgotten on the bed, surrounded by all the trappings of her impending overseas voyage. Moira feared if she returned to packing, she would find herself hurling each item in anger, rather than carefully rolling and placing them in the bag for her journey—a journey she was no longer sure she wanted to take.

How had it come to this? Only weeks ago life was simple and good. Moira, having just graduated from Boston Normal School, was set to begin her teaching career not far from the brownstone where she grew up. Her mother was alive and well, and Moira was content to daydream about someday embarking on a grand adventure to see her mother’s homeland. Today, life was drastically different.

Thunder rumbled across the sky, sending a chill down Moira’s spine. Hugging her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she turned to the bed and travel trappings strewn across it. Heaviness weighed her down like an anchor. Neither able to continue packing nor clear the bed for sleep, she shuffled to the tufted chair near the fireplace and slumped into the seat.

The flames danced hypnotically in the grate, drawing Moira into their spell. No thoughts flitted through her mind as she absently watched the fire. Time released any grip on sense or logic, and she gave herself over to the trance as the flames slowly died. Her eyelids growing heavy, Moira rested her head on the quilted back of the chair and let her lids fall closed.

Goodbye, Mother, she whispered into the darkness.

The explosion rocked the building, and Moira shot up in her seat, gripping the armrests so firmly she feared the fabric would tear. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead and dropped in dark stains on her shawl. She struggled to catch her breath, and she clutched one hand to her chest to quell the pounding underneath.

Rain pelted the windows, lightning split the sky, and another peal of thunder shook the room.

Not an explosion, she spoke to the room and gulped. Thunder.

Falling back in the seat, she wiped her brow with the hem of her shawl. Chills crept up her neck as the details of the dream floated to the forefront of her mind.

Mother.

The door to her bedroom squeaked open, and dusky-haired Leona entered. Are you alright, Miss? I thought I heard you cry out.

Leona looked at Moira with an expression of sadness and sympathy. A look Moira had grown to hate in the short days since Mother’s passing.

Yes, Leona. She pasted on her most authentic-looking smile. I’m fine. Thanks for looking in on me though.

Of course, Miss. She bobbed her head before scurrying to the window to draw the drapes. It’s a frightfully awful storm tonight, if I say so. I’ve not seen one like this in years.

Moira straightened her shawl once more and poked at the embers in the grate. Goodness, it sure is.

Leona finished her task, then came to rest a hand on Moira’s shoulder. Are you sure you’re alright? You’re as pale as a white rose, and despite the chill in the air, I can’t help but notice the perspiration on your face.

Sighing, Moira measured the loyal housekeeper. Leona had proven to be an invaluable help and comfort these last weeks. She, more than most, would likely understand. It was a dream, Moira began at last.

A dream? Leona’s brow furrowed.

Moira motioned to the stool across from her, and the woman sat down.

I saw a far green country with hills rolling on for eternity. Waters crashed upon the shore, and when the sun shone on the hills, they glistened like emeralds.

Ireland. A small smile dawned on Leona’s face.

Moira nodded. I can only assume so. It was breathtaking—like nothing I’d ever seen before. It felt so familiar, yet I know I’ve never been to this place.

Leona knitted her brows together and leaned over to place more coal on the grate. Interesting.

Indeed, Moira continued. But then, out of nowhere, pewter clouds darkened the sky and fog as thick as I’ve seen closed in around me. In the distance, I could just make out the figure of a woman standing on a hillside. I squinted to try and make out her face, but it was too dark, and the fog too thick. But I could see her skirts blowing in the wind.

That sounds . . . eerie.

It was, and yet I felt compelled to press on. In a flash, the scene swept forward and I found myself standing right behind her.

Leona scooted forward on the stool, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Taking the cue of Leona’s interest, Moira continued. I extended a trembling hand to tap the woman on the shoulder, but before I could touch her, she turned around. Moira squeezed her eyes shut and took in a slow, steady breath. Her heart already quickening, she could feel the sweat pricking the back of her neck.

Well, who was it?

It—Moira paused—It was Mother.

"Tsk! Leona wagged her head. Oh, you poor dear. That must have been shocking."

Yes, truly, it was. But more than that, it was the look in her eyes. Moira turned her own gaze back to the fire, searching for the best way to describe the haunting look she’d seen on her mother’s face. She looked . . . terrified. And sad.

Goodness, I wonder what that could be about?

Moira slowly raised her eyes to meet Leona’s. That’s not the worst of it. Her throat tightened, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t shared the dream. Not because she worried about Leona’s reaction but because she wasn’t sure she could get through the rest of the telling.

Oh, sweet Moira. Leona rested a hand on Moira’s knee. It might ease your heart to share the burden. She offered a kind smile, and compassion shone in her eyes.

Moira sighed and rubbed her palms up and down her skirt, drying and warming them at the same time. She looked me square in the face and said, ‘Save me, Moira. Come to Ireland and save me!’

Leona’s jaw fell open. But—

I know. Moira shrugged.

It’s as if she was trying to tell you— Leona stopped short and shot her eyes to meet Moira’s. Never mind.

Moira furrowed her brow but, eager to be done sharing her dream, chose not to question what Leona was referring to. Before I could ask her what she meant, she disappeared. And that’s when I woke up.

No wonder you were so upset when I came in.

The two sat in silence for several minutes before Leona turned her attention to the window. It seems quieter out there. She stood and made her way across the room to the window. On the way, she kept her eyes on Moira’s clothes and travel bag on the bed. So, you’ve decided to go?

Moira’s shoulders rose and fell. Maybe. I don’t know.

Chapter 2

DECEMBER 1920

Moira’s burlap bag sat in the corner. Though packed and ready for travel, a layer of dust had settled across the top. It had been three months since Mother’s passing, and still Moira had yet to decide about the offer her mother had presented just months before she died.

Though she had always dreamed of seeing her mother’s home village of Ballymann, Ireland, what her mother had asked Moira to do was simply too much. Moira poked at the fire in the grate and returned to her window. Her perch in her second-floor room had been a favorite and hallowed place ever since her childhood. She had spent hours gazing out at the world below, crafting stories in her mind about the people who passed by. Now though, the timeworn sill was no longer a place of solace and comfort. It was her place of melancholy.

Begging your pardon, Miss—Leona’s voice shattered Moira’s reverie—but we’ve a telegram from Ballymann.

Moira’s gaze remained glued on the street below.

Moira.

She turned to find the housekeeper’s face compassionate but resolute.

They need to know, she urged. They need an answer.

Moira nodded. Yes, yes. I know. But she didn’t know.

Today, Leona added softly. I’ll be in the parlor when you come to a decision. She hovered at the door another moment and then disappeared into the hallway.

What on earth had possessed Mother to recommend Moira for such a task? Moira tried to remember the conversation when Mother had told her the news.

Noreen Doherty had sat in an overstuffed chair in the living room of her brownstone, overlooking Massachusetts Avenue. A funny sort of smile flirted with the corners of her mouth, and an unfamiliar emotion swam within the woman’s eyes.

Moira, dear, I have some wonderful news from home. She gestured for Moira to take a seat on the matching chair across from her. Do you remember when I told you that my old teacher from Ireland, Miss McGinley, had passed on?

Moira nodded slowly, not sure where her mother was heading with the conversation.

Well, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up unjustly. The dignified woman paused. The amber light from the setting sun set her silvery gray hair alight.

Tell me what, Mother? You’re worrying me.

Oh, darling, there is nothing to fear. She smiled. Did I not say I had wonderful news? You see, when I learned of Mrs. McGinley’s unfortunate passing, I wrote to the parish and recommended that you be the new teacher in Ballymann. She grinned more broadly and sat back in her chair, clearly pleased with her surprise. Yet her eyes held something that unsettled Moira.

So? Moira swallowed hard. What did they say?

Her mother had stared out the window behind Moira for a moment. Something akin to wistfulness, or regret, reflected in her eyes. I’m told the parish leaders were reluctant.

Moira knitted her brows but remained silent.

But, Mother continued, Lady Williams insisted upon you being the one.

Moira sat, dumfounded, with her chin practically hanging in her lap. What? How? When did—? Unbidden, a rumble of laughter bubbled up and tumbled out of her mouth.

I know, I don’t deny I was shocked as well. Mother clasped Moira’s hand. I’d had some dealings with Lady Williams . . . before.

Before?

Oh . . . Her mother had faltered. When I was younger.

Moira nodded but something niggled at her gut that there was more than her mother was telling her.

At any rate, Lady Williams was quite insistent that you come. I don’t pretend to know why she is so interested in you, but I’m grateful. A warm smile spread across her mother’s face and she pressed Moira’s hand.

Oh, Mother, thank you! But—she swallowed—it’s so far! I can’t leave you here.

Mother’s smile faded a little, but her eyes still held their gleam of excitement. Moira dear, I’ll be fine. This is the chance you’ve always dreamed of, is it not?

Moira had pressed her lips together. She leaned forward and swallowed her mother in a hug. The two of them sat and rocked for the longest time, just mother and daughter.

Though Mother’s speech had been encouraging, it had yet to convince Moira to leave everything she’d ever known, voyage across the seas, and settle in a foreign place with foreign people.

Moira had all but decided not to go when the dream began haunting her. When it first occurred that stormy night in October, Moira hoped it had been born of the toxic mixture of grief and fatigue. But as time pressed on, the dreams not only continued but grew in frequency and intensity.

Though the specific details changed from night to night, each dream took place in Ireland, and concluded with Mother pleading with Moira to come to Ireland and save her.

Moira had discussed the dreams at length with Leona over the past three months. The same question vexed both women: How could Moira possibly save her mother if she was already dead?

Oh Lord, Moira whispered, not sure if it was a prayer or exclamation, I don’t know what to do. Adding to her apprehension, word had reached America of the War for Independence—Ireland’s fight for its independence. Donegal seemed a sweet respite from the heart of the fighting, but the idea of traveling to a war-torn country unsettled her.

Mother’s words echoed in her mind, Save me, Moira! Come to Ireland and save me.

Moira squeezed her eyes shut and slumped to the floor, exasperated and exhausted. I don’t know. She sighed. I just don’t know.

And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.

The words floated into her heart, and Moira opened her eyes to scan the room. Could it be? She raised her eyes to the ceiling. Could it be that simple? Are You asking me to go to Ireland?

A sense of confirmation took root within her.

I will never leave you. I will never forsake you.

Moira stood and a shaky breath escaped her lips. She brushed off her skirts and returned to the window. What, truly, did she have to lose? Father had passed away when she was a child. Mother was now gone. With no siblings, no other close relations nearby, and no husband, there was nothing tying her down to Boston. She had always wanted to see Ireland, walk the streets her mother had walked, and experience the culture, the food, and the community firsthand.

Could she really do this?

Leona, Moira called, heading for the door, a smile spreading across her face. Start a telegram, please.

Chapter 3

COUNTY DONEGAL, IRELAND

FEBRUARY 1, 1921

Moira had always longed to see the places of which her mother often spoke with nostalgia and longing. She wanted to smell the sweet aroma of the burning peat and hear the crashing waves beating upon the rocky Irish shores. Why had her mother never made a return visit? Moira would never know.

Standing atop the cliff now, gazing at the valley and the angry waves of the Atlantic pummeling the rugged shore, excitement and longing withdrew into the wings as fear and doubt waltzed in and took center stage. The circumstances of her life were barreling ahead like a steam locomotive, but she preferred the gentle rocking of a horse and buggy.

Moira scanned the horizon, letting her eyes linger, taking in all the sights that until that moment had lived only in her imagination and her mother’s memories. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the bungalows below. The salty, almost sweet smell of the churning North Atlantic stirred her exhausted spirit and ignited her hopes.

In the dead center of the valley, looming in stark contrast to the welcoming scene of farms and flowers, a gray stone building stood with a tower jutting high into the air. The church. As she took in the sight, the magnitude of the gift of grace that had been extended to her overwhelmed her. Were these soon-to-be new neighbors locked in the catacombs of moldy tradition? Or did they enjoy this same grace from her heavenly Father? Let it be so, Father. Let it be so.

The wind bullied her, carrying with it whispers of secrets and mysteries yet untold—but the gales were not alone in their intimidation. Acrid thoughts butted close to her, hissing doubt and confusion with each whip of the salty air.

She hadn’t fully realized the storm’s ferocity and the wind barreling in from the sea until a gust ripped the woolen scarf from her neck. She snatched it just before it flew away for good and tucked it deep into the front of her jacket. Earlier in the day, the slate-gray clouds on the horizon had caught her eye, but she hadn’t expected them to reach land so quickly.

Once again, your wandering mind has led you down a shaky path, Moira Girl, she scolded herself. If you’re going to reach your lodging before the torrent, you must leave now.

Sighing, she clambered back into the seat of the carriage. Moira flicked her wrists. The shadowy brown horse responded to the tap of the reins and resumed the trek down the path toward the village.

Driven by the wind, mist stung Moira’s face as the horse plodded steadily into the valley. It changed to a drizzle before finally evolving into heavy, fat raindrops. She was traveling on what she assumed to be the main road, though it looked little more than a back alley. Small, humble bungalows with whitewashed walls and thatched roofs lay scattered here and there along the hillsides. Just off the road to the right was the local pub, where the silhouettes of four hunched figures drinking their pints drew her gaze. The scene appeared warm, quiet, and inviting.

To her left stood the local market shop, closed for the night.

Though much smaller than she had anticipated, the town—with its dainty cottages, glowing windows, and sleepy little streets—hosted a cozy atmosphere, even in the midst of the storm. Anticipation wound up her spine and into her heart. This place, despite the cold and wind, felt like home. Up the road, a few more darkened buildings lined the street. At the horizon where the road began to bend, an orange light flickered in the night.

Oh bless! Please, God, let that be the guesthouse. A sigh of relief welled in her chest and spilled out with a flutter of her lips. The horse nickered and quickened his pace, jaunting down the muddied path with energy Moira hadn’t seen in him since they’d set out three days prior. I guess you’re glad for this trip to be over, too, boy?

The flickering beacon welcomed Moira. Her pulse raced as she headed toward the building.

The horse startled. A dark shadow emerged on the side of the road. The horse flew as fast as his pounding hooves would take him, narrowly missing the shadowed figure. Already coated in thick, wet mud, the wooden wheels refused to grip the rutted path. Moira jolted into the air, then fell back on the wooden seat with a thud. The carriage skidded side to side. She gripped the reins, tugging to no avail. Tipping and lurching, the carriage threatened to flip with each bump. Rain mixed with tears blurred her eyes and her heart pounded in her ears.

With one final, desperate tug at the reins, she veered the wagon to one side of the road. The horse skidded to a halt with a whinny, his hooves slipping in the mire.

The shadowed man stomped toward the rig, head hunched low against the elements. Whoa, now! Watch yourself before you kill someone, includin’ ye!

Moira spun about in her seat to face the man standing off to the side of the road, her mouth agape.

Ya won’t last long around here drivin’ like ya own the place, so ya won’t! the man scolded. He was naught but a shadow shrouded in dark and rain, but Moira could just make out the figure snatching the hat from his head and running a hand through a thick mop of hair, shaking his head in disgust.

Probably English, he growled as he turned and stormed away.

I’m terribly sorry! Moira called after him, but it was too late. The wild winds tore the words from her mouth.

The figure disappeared into the downpour as Moira righted herself in the seat and urged the horse on toward the light.

A woman stood in the doorway as Moira pulled up to the modest, two-story home. Mrs. Martin?

Joy glowed from the woman’s smile. The smell of strong black tea and fresh-baked Irish brown bread wafted out of the open door behind her.

The woman rushed to Moira’s side. Aye! Oh, I’m so glad ye’re here! Mrs. Martin called over the storm. I was ragin’ when I saw the storm coming, and I was worried to death you’d not make it. Thank God ye’re alright! Come in, now, pet, come in! My Owen’ll see to yer horse.

An older gentleman bustled around the corner and unhitched the horse. Shifting his feet impatiently in the mud, the animal made it clear he was ready to get out of the rain as well.

Mrs. Martin sang out a command to the man in what didn’t sound like words at all. Moira knitted her brows together.

"I’m sorry to be speakin’ the Gaeilge in front of ya when ya don’t have a word of it, do ya? She chuckled. That’s what most of us speak around here. Ye’ll catch on soon."

Moira blew a puff of air. I’ll certainly try. Doubt clouded her voice as she followed her hostess indoors. As they entered the house and the warmth of the turf fire enveloped her, thoughts of letters, Gaelic, and languages vanished as longing for hot tea and a comfortable seat stole every ounce of her attention.

"The sittin’ room’s

Reviews for A Dance in Donegal

[Jeremy Tidwell · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Love this story! Very well written and paced out nicely.

[ShariMcGriff · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a beautiful story. You don’t want to miss this one. ❤️